


separate themselves under the sun

by explosiontimothy, gearsystem



Series: Sherlock Holmes and the Lord in Disgrace [4]
Category: Black Sails, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Apologies, Clearing the air, Conversations, Gen, M/M, Post-Epilogue: Sherlock Holmes and the Lord in Disgrace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-14 20:34:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29052216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/explosiontimothy/pseuds/explosiontimothy, https://archiveofourown.org/users/gearsystem/pseuds/gearsystem
Summary: Sherlock Holmes and Thomas Hamilton clear the air between them, after the dust has settled.A bonus scene from the epilogue ofSherlock Holmes and the Lord in Disgrace. This is unlikely to make a lot of sense if you haven't read the source fic!
Relationships: Captain Flint | James McGraw/Thomas Hamilton, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Sherlock Holmes and the Lord in Disgrace [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1984079
Kudos: 6





	separate themselves under the sun

“Doctor Watson, as much as I would enjoy catching up with the particulars of our time apart, I came here with another request. I was wondering if I could have a word with your colleague alone?” Thomas Hamilton asks, and Sherlock’s attention is instantly forced up toward the conversation he was half listening to a moment ago.

John’s face twists at the request, and Sherlock’s stomach seems to match the conflict in equal measure. He is not afraid of Thomas, but he knows that, of their group, the two have shared the least words between one another. Sherlock is aware, rather acutely, how his actions five years ago were a hefty contributor to where all of them sit in this moment, and the reminder of such days weighs on him heavier than ever in Thomas’ presence. 

But, he is not afraid of him, and the man he sees seated across from John Watson is not one seeking vengeance or retribution for past cruelties. He speaks of sleep and of tea, and of the man he loves. So, Sherlock swallows the hint of dread in the pit of his gut, and speaks. 

“John.” Sherlock’ fingers gently touch the back of John’s hand, and John looks toward him. “It is alright.” Then, he meets Thomas’ eyes. “Lord Hamilton.”

“Thomas, please,” the man says and it is a phrase so familiar, one that echoes almost exactly a phrase on the night they met, yet now there is something else behind it. Something painful, something dark. Sherlock’s throat feels dry. 

John takes one last look at them and he is worried, of course he is. He would not be John Watson if he was not. Sherlock attempts to channel all the reassurance he does not feel into his nod and he watches John retreat back with some kind of anguish he does not fully understand within himself. 

And then they are alone. A clock ticks loudly in the parlour. It is a despicable sound. They must get rid of it as soon as possible. Perhaps chop it into firewood; perhaps gift it to one of the other houses. A memory arrives, unbidden, of Thomas’ clock in Peter Ashe’s parlour. Sherlock pushes it away and absent mindedly traces the pattern of his pipe with his thumb. He waits. 

Thomas only sits and watches Sherlock, his gaze careful and kind as it always was. He is silent. He also waits. 

“What is it you wish to speak with me about, Thomas?” Sherlock asks after weighing his options. Silence could only last so long, after all. 

Thomas furrows his brow, looking thoughtful. As if he has forgotten that he was the one that came to their doorstep in the first place. 

“I do not rightly know. But whatever it is that we do need to talk about, it is best that we do it now. The peace we are looking to build here is a fragile one and any tension between us will endanger it.” There is no threat in Thomas’ voice. Only gentle concern. “And I think too highly of you and John to allow this.”

Sherlock knows precisely to what tension Thomas refers, and it grates along his memories the same as the ticking clock does. He weaves his small pipe through his fingers a moment before packing a pinch of tobacco into it. The thin veil of armour it provides is a necessity to move forward. 

“I am not one accustomed to gentle handed conversation or apology. I imagine you gathered this from John’s writings many years ago, and it is one thing from those stories that does stand to be true in reality. In saying as much, however, I have had many years to contemplate my actions in 1895, and the role I played in your life then, and up to this point. I have churned the events over in my mind for half a decade, and there is little on this Earth that I am more apologetic for—”

Thomas raises a hand to interrupt Sherlock. “You misunderstand me, Mr. Holmes. I am not here to seek an apology from you. There is no forgiveness you need to seek from me and, even if there was need for it, I asked Miranda to convey this to you on the day I was taken. Did she not do so?”

Sherlock is lost for word or reason for a moment, thoughts racing across his mind. If apology was not what he seeks, then what? He takes a deep inhale from his pipe, unable to locate a cohesive thought.

Thomas watches him carefully. “I understand this is a lot to take in. You thought me dead but a week ago, and yet here I am, at your breakfast table, drinking your tea. When James finds himself feeling much like I assume you are at the moment, it helps him to stand and pace on the floor. Feel free to do so, if you would like. I would not judge you.”

Sherlock is surprised for a moment at Thomas’ aptitude for reading his emotion, but is then reminded of who is opposite him. The caring voice prevails even past years of horrors, and Sherlock is grateful for it. He stands up, slow at first, and walks toward the fireplace. The stones lining the mantle are rough beneath his touch, and centre his mind just enough to respond. 

“Miranda did convey your message that day, yes. I admit, I was not inclined to believe it at first, but… James’ response made it quite clear. Even so, that was the moment you were taken. In the time since that day, you have felt the true consequence of my and your father’s actions. You have experienced things I will never be able to fathom, and I cannot pretend I am not responsible, in some part, for it.”

“Do not compare yourself to my father.” It is only now that a sharpness enters Thomas’ tone, one that is not directed at Sherlock but rather at the man whose actions initiated this entire ordeal. “I have been told of his fate and I would like to spare no thought for the man who did not find even a sliver of concern in his heart for his own son. You are nothing alike, Mr. Holmes.” Thomas’ eyes stare in the middle distance for a moment and it is as if he is shaking this anger, this violence off his shoulders. When he speaks again, his voice is calm. “I know what he threatened you with. I am aware whose life he chose to bargain with to gain your allegiance. I know, because -- and it is important that what comes next stays entirely between us, Mr. Holmes -- he threatened me with much the same.” 

Sherlock is taken aback at Thomas’ words, both due to the intensity of how he says them, as well as the implication behind it. “What threat are you speaking of?”

Thomas leans back in his chair. His hands no longer hold his teacup -- he is now absentmindedly running a thumb over the raised scar on his wrist. Sherlock tries very hard not to think about it. “When I was taken to Reading Gaol, I asked for nothing. I made no demands, I did not try to use my status or my name to gain special treatment. I did none of this; all I asked was for news of James and Miranda and their safety. I asked to write to them and was denied the opportunity to do so; was punished for requesting it. Then, my father came; six months after my imprisonment, he arrived to see if I had ‘learned my lesson’, as it is. Naturally, you can imagine the first question I asked him as soon as I saw him.”

“I…” Sherlock stammers for a moment, the smell of smoke from his pipe enveloping his senses. “I did not know you were aware of what your father swore to take from me. I did not think it relevant.”

Thomas gives Sherlock a sad smile. “Of course it was relevant. I immediately understood your motivations after that meeting with my father. Do you know what he said to me?” Thomas takes a deep breath and the way he clutches his own wrist seems almost painful. “He told me that James and Miranda were in America, in a house owned by Peter, in South Carolina. He told me that, should I create any trouble, it will be in the blink of an eye that James’ … true nature would be revealed to the South Carolina authorities.” Thomas is as white as a sheet, clearly struggling with just the memory. “As it happens, my father was well aware that I knew that South Carolina is the last place in America that still upholds the death penalty for sodomy.”

A tremor comes over Sherlock, first in his hands. He sets down the shaking pipe, and places both palms against the stones of the mantle to keep himself from breaking any fragile items in his reach. The rage that Alfred Hamilton’s misdeeds brings him is still palpable, despite knowing the man has not been alive for months. He takes a deep breath, and closes his eyes.

“He lied to you. He told you a half truth just in an attempt to frighten you, when he had already won.” Sherlock turns toward Thomas, then, pushing his fingernails into the palms of his hands and averting his eyes. 

Thomas nods solemnly. “I know this now. I learned the truth once I was moved from Reading Gaol into the--” He trips over his words then, uncharacteristically. “The private-- the institution that--” 

“Yes,” Sherlock interrupts. He does not wish to see Thomas struggle any further through the terror those memories must encapsulate. “You were in a place quite unlike mine, Thomas. To believe him in that moment was of no choice of yours. In my case, it was not for lack of information, nor helplessness. It was cowardice, and if I have learned anything in the last half decade, it is that to be a coward in the face of such things is inexcusable.”

“So you are saying that, had I been in your position of knowledge and power, I would have betrayed James and risked his life for my own comfort?” Thomas raises an eyebrow. “Is that what you are telling me, Mr. Holmes?”

Sherlock freezes at that, his eyes blinking rapidly of their own volition. He swallows the agony that has made its home in his throat.

“No, I suppose it isn’t.”

“Oh, perhaps then you are implying that your feelings for John are less important, less sincere than mine for James?” Thomas’ head is tilted to one side. He has the expression of a man who knows that he is winning a battle. His hands have steadied. “Because I am certain this is not so. I have known it for some time, perhaps before you admitted it to yourself. So do you see now, Mr. Holmes, why I cannot blame you for protecting the one you love at any cost? It is what men like us are wont to do. We would set the world on fire for their sake and happily watch it burn, while counting ourselves right with God. They are our weak spots and my father knew how to exploit them. It is something only you and I will ever understand.”

A heat wells behind Sherlock’s eyes, and he forces his gaze back toward the mantlepiece. He taps his fingers along the ridge of it with a jittery energy.

He hears Thomas stand and approach him carefully near the fireplace. “I do not tell you this to hurt you, or to make you uncomfortable. You ask me for forgiveness that you do not need to seek from me. You ask me for a pardon that I am not entitled to give. All I have done, I have done in the service of love. And so have you. There is nothing shameful in that.”

“I could have done more to protect you, if I had not been so selfish, and yet you understand my motivation better than any other.”

“Protect me?” Even though he cannot see it, Sherlock can almost hear Thomas raising his eyebrow. “I was a Peer of the Realm, a Member of Parliament and of the Privy Council. With all my respect, Mr. Holmes, there was nothing you could have done to protect me. My father’s influence reached far beyond what you could ever hope to affect. Had you intervened, it would have meant more hurt for you, for John, for Mary. I can only be glad that this did not come to pass.”

Sherlock turns back toward him, and is faced with a kind expression he still cannot comprehend in its entirety. The expression is much the same as the one he saw five years ago, when all of this began, and then another memory passes through Sherlock’s mind.

“Perhaps you are right,” he resigns. “There is a reason for my stubbornness, I suppose, beyond that of my own individual guilt, though I know now that it was nothing but foolish.” 

Thomas looks confused. “There was?” 

Sherlock lets out a small, airy laugh despite himself. “I thought, at the time and until recently, that my efforts were doubly harmful. Though I was protecting John, I was convinced my actions led to your demise, and therefore to the loss of someone John held dear. I…” Sherlock struggles to articulate it for a moment.

“You thought he was in love with me.”

Sherlock’s eyes widen a bit at the forward nature of the statement, but knows to expect nothing less from the man in front of him.

“Yes, I did.”

Thomas huffs a laugh, mostly to himself. “I should have guessed. He feared the same, you know. John. He was so terrified of the thought I may have romantic inclinations towards him, he very nearly walked into my fireplace that evening. The evening before James came to Baker Street, I believe, and made everything ever so clear to John.” Gentle amusement twinkles in Thomas’ eyes now, as if through the reflection of the fire in the hearth. “I can swear to you, hand on my heart, that I have only ever seen John as a close friend and nothing more. At the time, my heart was so very occupied by what James and I shared that I did not feel I had the space for much else.” His smile disappears and gives way to some deep sadness.

“I suppose that makes sense,” Sherlock responds before noticing the tone of his last statement. “Forgive my intruding, Thomas, but has something shifted in your feelings toward James?”

Thomas is the one who looks away now, seeming lost and out of place. He takes some time before answering. “I cannot— in these last two days, James has done little but sleep, which I cannot blame him for. He looks as if he has barely done so in the last five years. However, I cannot, will not simply assume that his feelings have stayed the same. I—” His hands bunch into fists as he fights something deep within himself. “The image of him was what kept me alive and sane through everything that has happened. I will never stop carrying him in my heart, as I have carried him all these years. However I am also painfully aware that it was my actions that lost him his career, something he has worked his whole life towards. I would be a fool to simply… hope that his heart still belongs to me.”

Whilst he has been left without words so often in this interaction up to this point, this is one response Sherlock is able to relay in an instant.

“I have not known James in any intimate manner since our first introduction, Thomas, as you know. Our brief interactions have often been laden with tension, distrust, or outright hostility. However, I have spent these last few months planning your rescue beside him, and I have seen now first hand the responses he has toward both your loss and your return. I have been left uncertain of many things since your father first came to me with his case, but not once have I questioned the truth behind James’ devotion to you. It did not waver when you were taken, and it has not wavered since. A change in career, or a change of a life could not wish to alter it. I doubt the end of civilisation itself would alter it.”

Thomas closes his eyes and swallows, taking deep breaths as much as he is able. It takes him some time to speak again. “It is all I have wanted. To know how he is. To know that he is well. That he is safe. That he is happy, even if he could be so without me at his side. And he-- he has been so alone, it seems. All this time, even though he has been surrounded by so many people who love him, he has been so alone.” Thomas shakes his head and Sherlock realises that he was probably speaking more to himself than he was to him. “No more. Never again, if I can help it.” He looks at Sherlock again, his eyes clearer, even if slightly red. “Thank you. Thank you, Mr. Holmes.”

“There is no deed worth thanking me for, Thomas, I assure you.”

“You have gone to great lengths to continue my work over the years. You have helped many men, who would have otherwise faced fates worse than mine had you not intervened,” Thomas explains gently. “You have ensured James’ safety and brought me back to him, unharmed. You have just now reassured me that James’ feelings for me are unchanged. I would say this is plenty to be thankful for, Mr. Holmes.”

Heat returns to Sherlock’s eyes again at that, though now it is from the relief washing over him. 

“Sherlock,” he says. “Call me Sherlock, please.”

**Author's Note:**

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